


The Act Of Love

by orphan_account



Series: A Basketful of First-Times [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Accidental Plot, Alien Cultural Differences, Aliens Made Them Do It, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Aphrodisiacs, Awkward Sexual Situations, Breaking Celibacy Vows, Complicated Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Fictional Religion & Theology, First Time, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Force Bond (Star Wars), Gentleness, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, Illustrated, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Jinnobi Challenge 2019, M/M, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Non-Penetrative Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Repression, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Why Did I Write This?, from a certain point of view, if i'm being honest with myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-16 13:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan are sent to retrieve a relic from a world known for its secretive inhabitants . . . and for being a haven for pleasure-seeking tourists across the galaxy.As it turns out, the Force-sensitive crystal hidden in the relic is a mirror, and the living Force itself can be something of an aphrodisiac. But, as an extremely bewildered Jedi and his Padawan are told, the effects don't kindle something new--just show what was always there.Or: ". . . [W]hen people talked about good and evil, darkness and light, they were lying, because they kept the third extreme a secret, the extreme for which love was too weak and silly a word."





	The Act Of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merry_amelie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merry_amelie/gifts).

> merry_amelie: Friend, this is kind of a strange one to gift, but I wanted to say this: your kindness and comments on so much of my work have been the most wonderful support and welcome into going public with this ship (my OTP ever since I was a wee kiddo) that I could possibly hope for. That's part of why I've kept hammering away at so many of these stories, even if not many people read them. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. <3
> 
> Anyway, this is for [InfiniteJediLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteJediLove/pseuds/InfiniteJediLove)'s Jinnobi Challenge 2019! And my first time participating--yay! This is the second of two entries; the first is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714777).
> 
> Long and short: this was inspired by a story told to me fifteen years ago or so; someone was traveling through a major city for the first time, got lost, and accidentally ended up in the red light district.
> 
> I proceeded to crank that idea up to an 11.
> 
> Apart from the original character / planet / species stuff, the only other heads up is my headcanon: "The Jedi are basically a religious order and celibacy seems an implicit part of the Code, according to the cinematic universe."
> 
> Oh! Oh. And there are references to the _Jedi Apprentice_ series by Jude Watson, but having read it isn't necessary.
> 
> I also conceive of this as being set relatively soon before TPM; apart from their disagreements in the film, there seemed to me (even as a 9-year-old at the theatre) to be an underlying emotional tension between Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon: something they weren't certain how to handle and hadn't quite worked out.
> 
> Anyway, the planet of Rán’tha was basically spawned by Star Trek's [Risa](https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Risa). The Zír’th contact that Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon meet is some cross between [Aunt Beast](https://www.shmoop.com/a-wrinkle-in-time/aunt-beast.html) from _A Wrinkle In Time_ and [Koro Sensei](https://ansatsukyoshitsu.fandom.com/wiki/Korosensei) from _Assassination Classroom_. (I also slipped in a slightly misquoted quote because _damn_ that's a good line.)
> 
> The "Or:" is from _The People's Act Of Love_ by James Meek (p. 104). The illustration's the result of my impatiently slinging around some acrylics.
> 
> Thoughts and comments are ever and always welcome; thank you so much for reading, and I do hope you enjoy. <3

_<What if I lose myself, Master?>_

_<Then I will find you, Padawan.>_

* * *

_<Master, I think we’re lost.>_

Qui-Gon’s a half-cast silhouette by the backlight of a thousand neon glares; if he shifts his gaze to Obi-Wan, the younger man can’t tell. But well enough he can feel his Master’s mild amusement through the Force—hard-won ripples of silent laughter and soft light.

_<We’ll find our contact, Obi-Wan. Jocasta explicitly gave us both the address and the quickest route.>_

_“Explicit” is right._

Half the thought must have slipped between them; Qui-Gon fully turns his head, one eyebrow arched, the faintest crook of a smile at his lips, leaving Obi-Wan to look away, but half-chastised and heart gladdened.

The planet is Rán’tha: paradisaical, temperate, fertile, home to a sentient—if secretive—species who call themselves the Zír’th. They are hospitable, however, and their world has become known as a place of luxury and unsurpassed pleasure; treading the line between tasteful and tawdry, posh and profane, it draws tourists, lovers and heart-seekers alike. The information Jocasta Nu provided them from the Temple Archives is little more than speculation; perhaps the Zír’th are symbionts of a sort, feeding off the living Force—the daily thousands who come visit—and offering pleasure in exchange. Or perhaps it’s the pleasure itself that sustains them, the frenetic energy of living beings in the most primal act . . . Of course, the few beings in the galaxy who could sense this through the Force are all Jedi, and no self-respecting Jedi would come here.

Until now, apparently: information has surfaced about a relic, consisting of—or at least containing—a rare crystal, exceptionally potent in the Force. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan have been sent to negotiate its donation to the Order.

And at present, Obi-Wan is inclined to believe what Jocasta said, speculation or otherwise. The moment their small shuttle had touched down at the space-port—full to the brim of lower-class travelers and hopefuls, amongst whom he and Qui-Gon could easily conceal themselves—he’d been struck and duly stunned with a cacophony of currents from the living Force: a thousand strains of lust and love and at least a hundred different ways of experiencing a climax—all of which, thankfully, he’d been able to patiently ride out, as if merely a casual observer.

Qui-Gon had forewarned him to shroud himself in the cosmic Force, to focus his mind and draw upon his training to discipline his body . . . which turned out to be far easier a task when given than done.

The Zír’th seemed to engage in sex as readily as most beings breathed, and travelers were free, if not outright encouraged, to participate the same. As the two Jedi began their trek across the capitol city, there was no end to the beings in varying degrees of undress . . . and unabashed coital engagement.

But Obi-Wan could overlook this easily enough; he’d suffered his entire adolescence keeping his raging hormones checked and his love, his desire, for his Master a carefully-kept secret. Visual stimulation means nothing—not that he has much in the way of carnal passions anyway. He had long since scoured himself with the Light, denying, decrying, until in all but the occasional shame-wrought dream his body had learned to obey.

And aural temptation? No, not even _that_ moves him, nor the beings who had brushed past him in the streets.

Not at first.

But now they find themselves amidst a less grandiose section of the city, a section which, as evening falls, becomes a trove of glittering lights and alluring smells and suggestive shadows. Obi-Wan’s stomach growls at something that smells particularly savory—before his brain firmly reminds him that such is, more likely as not, _not_ food. Not on _this_ planet, anyway, and that’s more than enough to quell even his voracious appetite.

Darkness falls in earnest, pitch; Rán’tha has no moons, and outside the city limits all is velvet-soft. Throngs of beings begin to line the streets, pressing against one another, seeking, feeling, whispering: an undulating mass that almost oozes with a blinding singular multi-faceted insistence through the living Force.

He becomes aware, as they move, of the heightened frenzy: lit windows with no curtains drawn render privy pleasures public affairs; he can make out some of the neon signage, scattered in a hundred tongues, advertising anything and everything a being could want, let alone need. The air is musty, thick, swaying with a breeze and the tempo of several strains of music, a kaleidoscopic spray of instruments that do nothing to mask the laughter, the shrieking, the grunting, the cries.

During the daylight, Qui-Gon’s tall, imposing figure had cut an undisputed path for them; now even he finds himself an object of attention: arms, bodies, hands, whispering over him—soft glancing touches—offerings—

Obi-Wan sets his teeth, breathes deeply—just as Bant had taught him—focusing his attention solely on just how gently he can draw his breath. The bond between them seems to echo their uncertainty: half-cast queries hastily checked, flickers of emotions only . . . treading with the utmost care . . .

And something else.

He watches as his Master moves with grace and tact, quietly glancing at admirers with neutral eyes, saying nothing, his face utterly unreadable. Obi-Wan knows well that Qui-Gon had hoped their attire and lightsabers would spare them such attention; the galaxy knows the Jedi are celibate—though there are always titillating rumors to the contrary: tales of trysts, seduction . . . More than one film on the HoloNet has been such a bawdy tale . . . He and Bant had watched such nonsense, once, in secret, hoping to have a laugh . . . and wound up feeling bewildered and betrayed.

_Is nothing sacred anymore?_

_<Does this contrast bother you, my Padawan?>_

The question jars Obi-Wan from half-disgusted ruminations, half-buried memories of the HoloNet, the sacrilegous film. He knows his Master’s predilection for the living Force . . . but _this . . . _How can he be surrounded with such as this and still find peace?

_<What contrast, Master?>_

_<Few places is our sacrifice more stark, I think, than this; the life we cannot live . . . Beings in love. Beings in lust. Drinking deeply from pleasure for its own sake. You’re a young man, still . . . Does this stir any regret?>_

A question of curiosity alone, not loyalty . . . Once the query would have sparked pure panic. Now merely reflection . . . merely . . .

_<Never, Master. I am here with you. Wherever you are is enough. I don’t need something as base as this. I don’t want it. I have the Force, the Jedi Code . . . and I have you.>_

The tumbled words—more truth than he’d ever meant to say—stop Obi-Wan cold in his tracks. They are as near enough to a declaration of attachment as he’s ever come, let alone all the hidden secrets . . . love . . .

Qui-Gon pauses, turns, his head tilted, slight shadows gathering as the creases at his brow deepen.

_<Master. I didn’t . . . >_ Obi-Wan spreads his hands, ignoring the fur and tentacles and flesh that strive to grab him in passing like some unholy game. _<Forgive me. My words were inappropriate. It is no excuse, but I am . . . not sure what I meant . . . This . . . _energy_ . . . I have experienced much in the living Force, Master, but _this_ . . . I have tried to shield myself within the cosmic Force, but . . . >_

_<Sometimes the living pushes back against the cosmic. The Force is _all_ that is, Obi-Wan. Shields are not always enough.> _A small half-hinted smile, more in Qui-Gon’s eyes than at his lips. _<I must confess that I am . . . somewhat overwhelmed . . . myself. You are not alone in that. Peace can be hard to find, in moments such as this._

_< . . . but Padawan . . . >_

And Qui-Gon's broad hand is at Obi-Wan’s shoulder, as it has so often been.

Without warning, then, a _charge_—oh—an almost unbearable heat pooling in his cock—undiluted _need_—

And some echoed strain between them, their Force-bond flaring sharp and quick as a lightning strike.

Qui-Gon’s eyes widen; carefully he steps away, motions them onwards silently, wrapping himself in his robe as he does. Obi-Wan’s heart pounds out an uneasy tattoo in his ears; the gesture he knows well (although of course it could mean nothing—_must_ mean nothing); it’s the one he’s used for years for moments such as this, when his body dares betray him—

But no, that doesn’t mean . . . How often does he wrap himself within his robe for warmth? Or to shield him from the elements? How often has Qui-Gon done the same?

No; it means nothing, surely . . .

Out of the corner of his eye he notes the set of his Master’s jaw; something has shaken him indeed from his usual tranquility. A particularly enamored—or at least determined—being reaches our for him, all but smearing itself across his torso, leaning up as if to whisper in his ear—one long tendrilled appendage curling first at Qui-Gon’s belt—but briefly—before reaching down—

Qui-Gon moves through the touch like water, like some inexorable natural force, guiding the being aside with a gentle motion of his arm, to all appearances impervious.

But not before Obi-Wan notices that there’s _something_ for the being to grab on to. That his Master trembles, briefly; that the knuckles of his hands wax white; that an almost imperceptible glance is given unto him.

To _him_ . . .

A shudder wracks Obi-Wan’s frame, his cock beating with the blood suddenly hammering throughout his veins; he can feel precum beginning to seep through his trousers.

_No. _No_. _I_ control my body. (Breathe. Breathe as Bant taught: slowly, gently . . . as if the gentleness is all there is . . . )_

_<Peace can be hard to find, in moments such as this.> _The words are delicate, a half-echo; there is a pause; there is carefully-calculated distance, a diplomatic ritual, the truth too bright to look at so directly, and so they glance at it askance with squinted eyes. _<I suggest, my young Padawan, that we both endeavor to track some down.>_

* * *

Their contact lives above a pleasure-shop; a curious affair, selling local and imported delicacies, food and drink—all pungent aphrodisiacs. A set of carved stairs, half-tucked into an alleyway, brings them to a door that’s no more than woven reeds, glittering with beads and bells.

Qui-Gon steps back, nodding to his Padawan, knowing that in situations such as this Obi-Wan appreciates distractions. (The idiosyncracies—Obi-Wan’s, his own—have not gone unnoticed . . . Perhaps it is time that they discuss them, lay them within the river of the Light to let them drift away . . . not here, not now . . . but at the Temple . . . when they’ve found their equilibrium again . . . )

Lithe fingers flick at a reed full of bells; the sound is a clarion call, so briefly sharp, before melting into the fray from the street below. Curious, that so little as a flight of stairs and a half-turn into an alley can offer such respite . . . Even now Qui-Gon feels himself beginning to relax . . . the persistent pull of the living Force acquiescing at last to the peace of the cosmic; the frenetic beating of revelers’ blood in a primordial song no longer threatens to catch the tempo of his own.

Nearly.

The _nearness_ of his Padawan remains.

The moment, earlier, when each had—each had felt _something_—it was not lust—not _just_ . . . Qui-Gon shakes his head. Like ripples, like aftershocks, the memory refuses to be reckoned with; if he listens, there are echoes of it still throughout their bond . . . traces that, like embers to flames, would flare and flash bright if—

_No. Best not dwell on it._

Another play of his Padawan’s fingers; again the laughter of the bells; then, softly, “Hello there?”

“Ah! Star-travelers! Welcome!”

The padding of innumerable feet bearing a heavy being, a giggle that skips up a scale, and the reeds are pushed aside. The room within is far darker than the gaudy streets outside—dark almost as the moonless night; a few soft glow-lamps rest in the corner, nothing more. From such shadows their contact beckons them inside.

* * *

Qui-Gon studies the Zír’th closely, welcoming the resurgence of his curiosity over . . . other . . . musings and distractions. The being is large, covered with thick and fine fur; he bears numerous tentacled appendages, most of which seem to function as legs, curled at present underneath him like a cushion. Four appear to act as arms, although these end in nothing but faintly-glowing tips. His head is densely-maned, and he has no discernable face to speak of—just two dark and half-lost eyes, gleaming out at them in the half-light of the glow-lamps.

He and Obi-Wan have settled themselves on proffered pillows, accepted flasks of tea—and partaken somewhat cautiously; if the Force can purge most toxins from one’s body, they are relatively certain (although they dare not gaurantee) that such applies to aphrodisiacs as well. Their contact, who gives no name, who has said hardly a word, keeps the kettle close.

Between them rests the relic; at first it appears to be no more than a stone carving of remarkable detail—sensual, almost: a twining of shapes and textures, evocative of two abstracted beings in the act of love, perhaps all the more erotic for doing no more than dropping the suggestion in the viewer’s mind. Within it, though—visible in cracks—there is a crystal, gently glowing, awash with the Light and beating out the pulse of the cosmic and the living Force alike.

It is magnetic, utterly; Qui-Gon reaches out to touch the stone, his eyes flickering to Obi-Wan: his Padawan’s face is cast more in that crystal-glow than the meager lamp-light, rapt, lips pursed in concentration, his cerulean eyes alight, like kindled fire; he, too, reaches for the stone.

Their fingers brush.

And the crystal becomes a bolt of raw energy, struck to the core of their beings—becomes the bond between them, all shields, all cautious posturing, cast entirely aside until they are as much two beings with one mind—and the energy coils and mounts and it isn’t just a matter of the body any more (as if it’s ever solely been)—it’s more than stiffened cocks and the seizing of flesh and the spurting of cum—

_<Master.>_

Obi-Wan . . . steadfast, always; his grounding anchor, always . . . soft-edged and not unkind . . . but truth . . . but calling him . . .

And pain, a pain Qui-Gon can no longer ignore: the pain of one who has suffered, and deeply, and for years, and in silence.

He withdraws his hand from the stone, feels the currents of wild energy release him, running from him as smoothly as rain trickling from skin. The room returns (when had he stepped outside himself?): the glow-lamps, the shadows, the Zír’th half-hidden amongst them. Obi-Wan at his side, almost austere in countenance. His hands are folded in his lap, his jaw is set, and never has the Master seen his Padawan look quite so wise or so tormented.

Qui-Gon draws a deep breath into the center of himself, regathering his body: the needful ache of his erection is passed over for the bemused gratitude that, despite everything, he hasn’t _actually_ cum in his trousers.

_<Small blessings, Master.>_

The gentle play he loves so much—

Another breath, then: deep and deeper: the center wherein dwells the Force . . .

Their Zír’th companion’s song-spray giggle breaks what must be a distinctly awkward silence.

“I expected that type of reaction from _you_, young one—but hardly from your teacher.”

“Master Qui-Gon is particularly attuned to what we call ‘the living Force,’” Obi-Wan begins slowly, unable now to meet either of their eyes. “This crystal is . . . It also has a strong connection. Your whole planet does.”

“Forgive my . . . lapse,” Qui-Gon murmurs, rubbing absently at his temple with one hand. “Whatever happened . . . I must confess that I don’t fully understand, but I beg your utmost pardon. It was—”

“Not merely yours,” the Zír’th cheerfully remarks. “And not a lapse. It affected your student as well—the same way, in fact. Surely you know this? You are bound together, yes? What the crystal gave you was nothing but the truth.”

Before either of them answer, the soft tip of a tentacle slips forward, curling beneath Obi-Wan’s clean-shaven chin. “Tell me, young one, how old are you?”

“Twenty-five, sir, according to standard—”

“Ah. So you are long past old enough to procreate.”

Even in the half-light of the glow-lamp, Qui-Gon can see the heat of a blush spreading across his Padawan’s mortified face. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

“And yet you retreat within yourself, deny yourself, wrap yourself so deeply in that Light of yours that you half-forget you live in a body . . . no . . . it isn’t that; not quite . . . you like food and sleep and sunlight and cool water . . . ah, so . . . it’s something else . . . I can feel it—as if in trying to prune the tree of your heart, your desires, you cut off all the healthy branches . . . ah! But the tree’s your secret: the seed you never wanted planted, the sapling that grew no matter how often you tried to cut it down . . .

“And _you_.” A second tentacle brushes against Qui-Gon’s cheek: a soft, flickering pulse of energy. Charged, in its own way, but nothing like the crystal—nothing like the beings gathered in the streets—

“_You_ live in your body more, though you’re more the mystic, too, and if you’re equally inclined to lose yourself to the energy that pervades all things, it’s to celebrate . . . ah . . . not merely yourself, your own mechanations, but the pulse of all that is. So, yes—you’ve consciously pleasured yourself. Not often, but enough to understand. Enough for me to ask why it is you’ve so willfully turned away, why you’ve never acknowledged—”

“The Jedi are sworn to celibacy.” Qui-Gon’s voice is low and deep: a tone he uses rarely: curt, almost, no-nonsense. “We celebrate the currents of the living Force but acknowledge that our bodies are vessels of the cosmic Force—it flows through us, and binds everything from stars to atoms. Everything we strive to do is in service to the galaxy, to all living things, and to the Light. While our vows do not eschew self-pleasure, one of the foundational pillars of the Jedi Code, of the Order, is discipline itself.

“If you are attempting to read more into the bond between myself and my Padawan, if you dare to look into what are, wholly, his _personal_ decisions—and no concern of mine—and no concern of _yours_—then I must dissuade you.”

“_I_ do not seek to pry, Jedi.” The tentacle tickles his cheek. A flash of the hidden eyes. “The _crystal_ has said everything, as have your reactions to Rán’tha—yes, the both of you. I speak nothing new, nor does the crystal, but for what you both refuse to acknowledge, to accept. The secrets you think you hide from one another.”

“We can form no attachments,” Obi-Wan speaks up. “We cannot know love, except for compassion for all things. These are the tenets of the Code. Sir, what you suggest—even if it were true—we simply cannot—”

“Do _I_ suggest you act? Do _I_ lead you down a single path? No—no. I merely suggest that you be _honest_. The tree of your body and heart will grow back, young one, no matter how much you prune, how deeply you dig through the roots—unless you poison the soil . . . but there’s too much Darkness in that task for almost anyone, let alone a Jedi. And as for your Master—well.” Dark eyes shift, askance, tossing Qui-Gon an unreadable glance. “Perhaps there is some honor lost, a lesson as needs learning.”

_This is . . . _Qui-Gon hastily curtails the thought. Ridiculous? Insulting? Yes and yes: not so much for himself, but to the Order—and his Padawan.

“I respect your customs, sir.” A duck of Obi-Wan’s head, his braid casting a long shadow. “I appreciate what I suspect is but your peoples’ understanding of the Force—of the energy that courses through all things—as an alternative to ours. Perhaps we see but different sides to it, and if this has led to your conclusions . . . My Master and I honor them, even if we disagree, and beg your indulgence, that you do the same.”

The Zír’th withdraws his tentacles, flourishing them in an extravagant bow. “A negotiator! How splendid.”

“If that’s so . . .” Obi-Wan lifts his head, smiles, the lamplight glowing in his eyes, “then I remind you of why we’ve come. It is the Council’s wish that this artifact—the crystal—be housed within the Jedi Temple, on the planet Coruscant. We cannot offer credits, but we are open to whatever reasonable terms you may offer.”

“My terms are non-negotiable.”

A quirk of his Padawan’s lips, the smile broadening, and Qui-Gon has to hide his own twitch-lipped smirk. He knows that look too well. With age Obi-Wan has shed his impulsiveness, his anger, transforming what vestiges remain into patience and a particular grace for navigating challenges like this.

_If he succeeds, perhaps the Council will agree that he has passed the Trial of Insight . . ._

Another duck of the head: acknowledgement, respect. “And what _are_ your terms?”

“That in exchange for the carving—the crystal therein—you both will understand each other. There is a sleeping-room to the side; I will keep watch; no one will disturb you. Come the morning, if you’ve done as I’ve asked, then the crystal is yours; you may leave for the shuttle and return to your Temple.”

“’Understand each other’?” Obi-Wan rubs at his chin. “Can you clarify that? How will we know if we’ve done as you’ve asked?”

“_I _don’t presume to know. The crystal does. What it has shown you, what you have felt . . . if you do as I’ve asked come the morrow, you’ll be able to touch the stone with no further effects. It will be calm, at peace, tranquil—as you both should be. You _are_ Jedi, no?”

“We _are_.” Qui-Gon shifts, fighting the impulse to rise to his feet. “And I don’t believe you’re so naïve. What you’re implying is contrary to our Code. What you’re asking is impossible.”

_<Wait. Master—>_

“Then you get no crystal from me. Aha! Tell me: Can you even say why your Council wants it, or are you here simply because they sent you so? Or has it been said that the Force, as you so call it, has a sense of humor, no?”

The Zír’th unfurls his tentacles with something like an apathetic shrug and begins to wiggle towards the door of reeds, the bells, the beads. “Take the room, I beg you. No one will intrude. I myself will keep watch here at the stairs. It is a lovely carousing kind of night—there’s much feasting to be had.”

* * *

_<Absolutely not.>_

_<Master—>_

_<Padawan_._> _Qui-Gon folds his arms, begins pacing about the shadowed room; the crystal in the relic draws him, still, that much Obi-Wan can see, and his Master seems determined to pit his own seemingly indomitable will against it. _<Your effort is appreciated, but what I said remains: what was asked of us is impossible.>_

_<Only from a certain point of view.>_ Obi-Wan reaches for the relic, the stone cool against his fingertips—such a contrast to the crystal’s energy, its heat. _<I advocate nothing that breaks the Code, Master, although I don’t understand why you’re suddenly so adamant defending it. I think there is truth to what the Zír’th has said. There’s a reason the living Force affects us here the way it does. Each world of this galaxy is full of beings in love or lust: _all_ life must procreate. What, here, is different? The concentration of such energy should not so easily . . . distract us. And yet neither of us can deny that it _has_—nor what happened with the crystal._

_<He said that the crystal shows nothing new—only what’s already there.> _He gathers the relic in his arms, cradling it there against his chest; somehow, somehow, it’s soothing; he can almost hear the song sung between the crystal and the river stone Qui-Gon had given him those many years ago: the little Force-sensitive black stone that had saved his memory, if not his life. Ever since, he’s kept it in a hidden pocket sewn by Bant into his tunic, nestled just above his heart.

In a fluid motion he rises to his feet, takes one step towards his Master. He can feel the crystal begin to laugh, flares of light flickering out, teasing and insistent, the bond between them gathering the rhythm, quickening his blood, sending shivers down his spine and stiffening his cock.

This crystal that causes Qui-Gon such consternation has returned Obi-Wan to a locus of peace after the frenetic energy of the beings in the streets . . . he almost smiles . . . the Force, it seems, _does_ have a sense of humor: their contact wasn’t wrong.

Almost tenderly he casts the sensations of his body to the side; _they_ are not the truth. Not quite . . . and he must help his Master see this.

Qui-Gon’s eyes widen; he gives a vehement shake of his head, his flying hair casting wild shadows on the walls.

_<The failure of a mission is a lesson, Obi-Wan. There comes a time when one must choose between—>_

_<This will not end with the mission, Master. I am convinced that whether we procure the crystal or not is ancillary at best. Perhaps even the Council knew this—or Master Yoda, anyway. He tends to know the truths we hide . . . >_

Another step, and _heightening,_ a keening need: the sort that used to test his every ounce of self-control, when he was a teenager: when a dream woke him in the night just at the edge of orgasm. But even this . . . even this he can endure. What he _cannot_ endure—not anymore—and such the crystal showed him—is the dishonesty between them. The shadows gathered. He had suspected as much, suspected as much with a kind of heavy sorrow; Qui-Gon’s reactions—to the planet, to the crystal—his vehement opposition to the Zír’th’s request—had confirmed what had been all but whispers in his heart.

The frenzied pulse of the living Force had, for each, brought the other into stark relief, until however they’d so buried their feelings, their hopes, their desires—their love?—was stripped away and there was nothing left to hide behind.

And few beings—Jedi or not—are comfortable with that.

_<Tell me, Master: had you hoped this would simply disappear? Had you thought that with time it would vanish? Or had you hoped that . . . if I pass the Trials and become a Knight . . . and am no longer at your side . . . and the Force no longer binds us . . . we will never meet again? Do you think it’s such a simple thing, a chemical attraction?>_

A twisted strain of grief, uncertainty, regret, plays across Qui-Gon’s face; he bows his head, turns towards the shadows until Obi-Wan can no longer discern the final set of his expression. Carefully he lets trickle through the bond the pain speaking the words has caused him, hoping Qui-Gon understands: there is no accusation, no anger, no fear: only the search for truth. And how he hopes his words are as far from truth as one can get.

When Qui-Gon doesn’t answer, when the Force seems to fluctuate between the gathered keenings of the crystal and the warring of their wills, he closes his eyes and tries again, well-aware that at some point the scales will tip: Qui-Gon will come to understand, and agree, to what is being asked of them—or not. Or not, and something will be forever lost between them. Perhaps the soil will be poisoned after all . . .

_<The Trial of the Spirit is also known as Facing the Mirror, Master. Is there ever a time when a Jedi should turn away from their reflection? Is that not what you and I have done? _That_ is what the crystal asks of us: not . . . carnal satisfaction . . . not for its own sake . . . But that we face the mirror, both of us. Together.>_

* * *

The side room the Zír’th had offered is guarded by the same style of dried-reed door, although this one is not decorated with bells or beads; it rustles, whispers, as they pass within, as if promising to keep a secret; it is thick enough to snuff out the main room’s meager light.

Darkness.

Qui-Gon reaches for his belt, for a glow-rod, but Obi-Wan murmurs a quiet “No” and sets the relic in the corner, near the door. The crystal within casts an ambiance over the tiny room: soft, now: eerily soft and deceptively tranquil. Energy gathers about them, palpable, a prickling along the skin, the hush and tremor of the living Force. There is nothing hostile here. Harsh—but only if resisted. Qui-Gon stares down at the relic, blinking through the negative spaces of the cracks from which the crystal gleams, wishing he’d understood that sooner.

And thanking the Force for his Padawan, wise beyond his years—far wiser a man, Qui-Gon admits with a small, wry smile, than he.

Uncertainly they settle, cross-legged, on the sleeping-mat that takes up most of the floor. They almost touch, so small is the room, and the nearness is catching, kindling. What on this planet _hasn’t_ been?

Obi-Wan draws a gentle breath, catching the sharper rhythm of his Master’s inhalations. He opens his mouth as if to speak, thinks better of it; he reaches for the bond, patient and still. There is much to say—but the Force whispers that it’s Qui-Gon who should be the first to say it.

_<When did you know, my Padawan?>_

_<When I was thirteen, Master.> _Obi-Wan swallows against the welling humiliation, almost second-nature now; even though he knows this conversation will be the catalyst, will lead to abreaction (so he hopes) of one kind or another—unburdening himself at last of the secret, of the guilt—he cannot undo the reaction he’s instilled within himself for nearly half his life. _<A dream of you. Only, ever, of you. I’ve tried to control them, but . . . >_

_<For all those years you’ve suffered . . . > _Tenderly, too quickly: the Force reaches out, a soothing balm: light, warmth, cool water. _Peace,_ the whisper: _peace. <Obi-Wan, why . . . >_

_<It is against the Code, Master . . . I was afraid I’d lose you. I’ve almost lost you once, and . . . >_

_<Hm.> _Gentle laughter; Obi-Wan catches his Master shifting in the semi-dark, the lines of his face cast to deep shadows, the planes alight. His eyes are closed, the crow’s-feet at the corners wrinkling. One broad hand reaches out, palm up, a voluntary offering: each knowing, now, the cost. _<You’ll not lose me, Padawan. Not for that. Not for anything again.>_

Obi-Wan bites at his lip, half-caught between the rushing of his blood, the ache in his cock that is rapidly becoming more and more difficult to ignore, and the sudden thought that if Qui-Gon in this matter, in the living Force, is like a whirlwind, he must be like the stones that stand resolute against the gale.

_<And you’ve . . . not suffered so, Master. Why now? I don’t understand . . . >_

The proffered hand remains.

_<Only for a few years, Padawan. But for those few . . . > _

An image passes between them, brief: hazy and clear as a morning alike: Obi-Wan with Bant in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, two, three years before: they’d laid their clothing on the shore and sliped, in the pre-dawn haze, naked into the depths of the synthetic pond. Qui-Gon had come searching for his Padawan at dawn—and there saw him emerge from the pool, water cascading from his body, resplendent in the mounting light, utterly at ease and at peace with himself, with his body—something the Master had never observed, but so it was . . . perhaps because of Bant . . . she’d always been an anchor for his Padawan . . .

The image lingers between them a moment more, captured, still: the young man, naked, gleaming in the rising of Coruscant’s sun.

_<I thought at first it was a substitute attraction . . . after Tahl . . . a delayed response, a fruit of grief. I dared not dwell on it, for fear of hurting you. But in that moment I realized you were a boy no more: a man. And you were beautiful to me. And all the years we’d spent together . . . bound by the Force . . . closer than two beings may ever come in flesh . . . _

_<You asked me earlier if I’d hoped that we would never see each other once you become a Knight . . . my Padawan . . . how far from the truth that is, how far from my hopes . . . _

_<It will be my heart’s honor to walk with you, for as long as it is the will of the Force.>_

Obi-Wan half-reaches for his Master’s hand, grows still.

_<Master, the Code . . . >_

_<The Force binds all beings in intricate ways, my Padawan. There are mysteries and currents and complex truths . . . I . . . with the Zír’th . . . my objections were defense . . . a shallow one. There is room in the Code, I believe, for a moment such as this . . . Tell me, Padawan—this moment—is it lust?>_

_<No, Master. Not . . . quite.>_

_<Ah. No. It’s not. Sometimes it’s seemed so—sometimes, perhaps, it’s been. But now it’s sacred; the Force woven through our bodies. And we _do_ have bodies, Obi-Wan; often you remind me of it; how many times have you brought me food when I am so absorbed in training or study that I forget to eat?>_

Qui-Gon offers a low chuckle, something almost mournful, something that tapers to a sigh.

_<And if sacrificing my life would end a war or save a single being, would you do so? Could you let me go?>_

_<Master, I—>_

_<Could you?>_

_<There is no death; there is the Force . . . Master . . . I . . . > _Obi-Wan searches for an answer, hopes a nod will be enough. Easier it is to think of his own offering than such a task he can’t even imagine. _<Master, if things were reversed—if my life would save yours, save an innocent’s or end a war . . . >_

_<Once you made me such an offer, Padawan. Do you remember it? We have come far since then . . . and so now, if now it were the only way . . . then I would rejoice for you, my Padawan, for you will have become transformed into the Force.>_

They are silent for a moment; each has known the death of friends; each knows these are not hollow words. And each remembers, too, the moment when a twelve-year-old offered his life, without hesitation, for that of the man who’d all but shattered his dreams . . .

_<This is the energy of the living Force: given and received. I was a fool to resist it. And my Padawan . . . I failed you in trying to resist it, in trying to ignore your pain for mine, in telling myself it was all so I didn’t hurt you . . . and yet what I’ve done has caused more harm . . . This planet has shown me that. My Padawan, you are my anchor, you are far wiser than I can ever hope to be . . . Please, Obi-Wan, forgive me.>_

_<If it helps to hear, Master, I forgive you. Likewise—if in my ignorance I’ve—>_

_<No.> _With unutterable tenderness, the offered hand shifts, briefly, just enough to still the apology to come. _<No, no. You have nothing for which to atone, Obi-Wan. There is nothing to forgive._

_<Let it pass between us now. Let it be the Light and the water that washes us of all the pain we’ve caused each other. And then let us step into tomorrow to meditate upon that truth—what we’ve done before, and now. Trust in the Force, my Padawan, just as you trust in the wisdom of the Code.>_

_<Yes, Master.>_

_(And you. I trust in you.)_

And Obi-Wan reaches for his Master’s hand at last.

* * *

The crystal splatters light across the walls, shifting, dizzying, bearing them along a wild, courseless current. The bond between them offers nothing but Light and touch and energy, caressing, embracing: deeper strains of the mere shadows that are the gestures of the flesh.

They undress, Qui-Gon taking care to fold his Padawan’s garments _so_—he has always been fastidious about his clothes. His own robe and tunic and trousers he tosses into a corner without ceremony, eager, now, eager in the glow of this strange crystal to feel the air against the skin, the roving of Obi-Wan’s gaze, the warmth of his touch, the flowing of the Force between them thus: no barriers at all . . .

Obi-Wan is neither shy nor exuberant; he runs his hands over his Master’s torso, tracing the scars he knows, lingering longer on the ones whose stories he has never heard. His thumbs brush over Qui-Gon’s nipples, earning him a gasping breath, closed eyes; he traces patterns there across the skin—shoulders, chest—arms tensed to quivering rigidity—before he lands at his Master’s wrists, beating with a wild pulse, a half-checked ecstasy.

Up along his thighs, then—broad and firm, testament to every muscle in his Master’s body being clenched—the tips of his fingers dancing close to the thicket of hair at Qui-Gon’s groin, toying with the shadow of his cock. Obi-Wan has seen this part of him before, of course, but quiescent then, but still and soft; now it thrums with a life of its own, precum gleaming at its head, an offering, an invitation; tenderly he curls his hand about the shaft, shuddering at the heat, the weight, the hardness there beneath his palm. Tentatively he draws the foreskin back, no more than a half-stroke, feather-light.

Qui-Gon moans, his head tossed back, rocking his hips into the touch—the first in his life besides his own. The living Force, the threads of all the galaxy, the grip of the universe that never seems to leave his shoulders, is now condensed solely into Obi-Wan, it seems: the young man’s stoic face, his steady gaze, the lips that are pursed in taut concentration.

His hand.

And there—Qui-Gon’s own life energy, his spirit, the whole of him—meeting his Padawan’s.

Such a simple thing, a touch.

Obi-Wan catches the motions of his Master’s hips, instinctively echoing the rhythm, meeting each thrust with a stroke both firm and delicate, as if he is afraid that something will break, something that has nothing to do with the throbbing cock he holds, with Qui-Gon’s gasping breath, the cries he’s never heard before but for in his dreams—

The Force surges about them, Qui-Gon’s driving need pouring itself across their bond; Obi-Wan’s own cock twitches—heat gathers deep within his body, curls his toes—oh, he _wants_—

Their bond would be enough, he knows: the shared desire: he could cum from nothing more than this.

But his breath is slow and gentle, as if the gentleness is all there is. He does not close his eyes, dares not look away from the sight of his Master: the crystal, as before, has flared bright as the fire of stars, has cast into stark relief the massive man, his whole body caught at the edge of desire: half-untangled from the cross-legged pose in which they’d begun, but only just, his hands splayed helplessly against the sleeping mat, gripping it until his knuckles are white as bone, the scars of training and duels livid, dark—

His hair has fallen about his face, silvered-copper strands stuck there with sweat; his eyes are closed, his mouth agape—

And something gives, as it always does.

“_Oh_—!”

and

_<Obi-Wan—!>_

as if in the same breath

as if the truth is something passable between them, only

as if to speak it is profane

And the rhythm is lost and frantic and Qui-Gon shudders and cums with a cry, something low and deep, something wrenched from the very center of his being, something that were it not the act of love might have been a sob, a sound of grief.

Obi-Wan idly marvels at the spurted heat, the pulsing cock . . . and regrets with greater clarity that they’ve made a mess of their host’s sleeping mat.

He can feel his Master heaving for breath, reaching through the bond almost incoherently, love-unmistakable and aftershocks of pleasure and half-unfiltered thoughts (_<Stars and galaxies, it’s been so long . . . >_) and unshakable gratitude, relief and longing, still, a different kind—(_<Do you want this, Padawan? Please, let me return this gift you’ve given me . . . >)—_

He looks into his Qui-Gon’s face, open, unguarded, for perhaps the first time he’s ever seen it so: dark indigo eyes, gleaming by the crystal-light, search his: there is a smile at those lips, quiet: there is something more intimate than the hand outheld as his offering now: reciprocity of touch, no more.

Already he can feel his Master’s cock grow soft within his grasp, but still he holds it, gently. Something precious, both familiar and new. Something much more than a piece of the body, though the body itself belongs to the man he loves.

But he is not supposed to love.

He can sense the residual eddies of Qui-Gon’s orgasm through the living Force, can still feel the persistent keening of his own cock: the heaviness, the ache that seems to consume far more than his genitals. It suffuses the totality of all his body is, spilled into his spirit . . . as if the Force has offered him this moment, this moment in which they could know each other, and his own stubbornness, his own self-cultivated guilt has kept him from it.

He had ridden through the ripples of searing pleasure that tried to wrench him from his body no differently than when they’d first landed on this strange, strange world. As if the orgasm were not an offering of love, as if he’d merely stumbled into it on accident and now strove with the whole of who he was, for the sake of decency, to distance himself . . .

And yet Qui-Gon is so near, so warm, so full, so full of _life_, the living Force—the cosmic Force—entwined. His hand, again, outheld, just as it was before, and such understanding in his face, such love, such reassurance through the bond.

Oh, Force . . . how badly he _wants._ How deeply he loves.

But _they_ are not supposed to love . . .

He feels a bead of precum begin to trickle down his cock, a surge of pleasure threatening to jerk his hips—it would take so little to throw him from the precipice—and so he breathes, just as Bant had taught him . . . slow and gentle, like the calmest sea . . .

* * *

Qui-Gon lays his hand atop his Padawan’s—the one he hasn’t removed from his cock, although it’s quiet now; the storm has passed; it’s merely flesh, both soft and still.

Obi-Wan, meanwhile, is trying so desperately to be the center in the gale, a stillness unto himself. A battle he’s waged now for nearly half his life . . . and the thought brings an ache to the Jedi’s breast. By the sun-flare of the crystal, the gathering tension of the living Force, he studies his Padawan carefully: his muscles are lax, his face utterly neutral . . . But his erection bespeaks more than need, than lust; it is no less a sacred part of the body, and in this moment it almost seems to be the young man’s root, his core . . . the heart of him. The truth.

He wonders if Obi-Wan realizes he’s trembling.

Reflexively he runs his thumb over his Padawan’s knuckles, staring down and wondering at this: his quiescent cock in Obi-Wan’s hand.

_<Padawan. Trust your instincts. Listen to the living Force. What I offer is whatever you ask of me . . . But I must ask you, Obi-Wan: have _you_ faced the mirror? Do you hesitate now because it’s what you taught yourself? You don’t need that anymore. You helped me understand . . . And here we are, my Padawan; I’m here. I’m here.>_

Through the Force he reaches out—(perhaps his proffered hand, the blatant reciprocity, the promise, looks all too much like temptation)—and whispers of light, and healing, and whispers of stillness and peace and where tranquility and rapture meet, and whispers that the body is sacred, the body is a vessel of the Force; if Obi-Wan can embrace so heartily sleep and sunlight and food, if he can gather pleasure from the burst of a berry tart against his tongue, from the hugs of Bant Eerin, from her silver eyes, her gentle laugh—if he would never think of denying himself such as these in due course—

_<Master . . . >_

Something flickers in Obi-Wan’s gaze, something Qui-Gon has come to recognize: the letting go of fear.

_<What if I lose myself, Master?>_

_<Then I will find you, Padawan.>_

* * *

Qui-Gon lays supine on the sleeping mat, beckoning Obi-Wan near. It has struck him that this will be his Padawan’s first conscious experience of an orgasm, save for what shadows danced through dreams, and he’s determined that it be more than what his own had been—for _that_, he must admit, was a rather hurried and messy affair. No less beautiful, for the gift it was, for the _truth_ of it . . . but for the young man he wishes something special.

Obi-Wan settles beside him, hesitant, until a smile and a gesture draw him close. He shudders, the feeling of his Master’s skin against his own enough to leave his head spinning. The entire situation seems surreal at best . . . The living Force begins to pound out a tempo through his veins, drawing him deeper into Qui-Gon’s arms until he could press himself against that warm, firm body, full of ridges and valleys and planes, muscle and sinew and bone, and no amount of closeness would _ever_ be enough . . .

Qui-Gon’s presence through the Force is a tempering shadow, almost a hum, like a familiar song, like something he can cling to . . . Impulsively he gathers his Master’s cock in hand again; nothing will come of it, he knows—his Master is not young—but the velvet softness of it soothes him.

_<Now then, Padawan . . . >_

A broad thumb, callous-coarse, brushes across his nipples.

Enough to throw back his head and blink away stars and wonder how he’s supposed to breathe gently when it feels as if all the breath is stolen from his lungs.

_<Master—please?>_

A trailing touch, the same pattern as Obi-Wan had traced against Qui-Gon’s shoulders, chest . . . facing the mirror indeed . . .

Desperately trying to bite back a whimper, he throws his whole body into his Master’s touch, shifting and seeking the deepest brushing of his fingertips, the broadest splay of his hand . . .

And oh, when Qui-Gon at last strokes his thigh, teasing him with the whisper of a finger through the thicket of hair at his groin—

Instinctively his hips jerk, seeking friction, _anything_—again, again—raw desperate need—the sum of years, the sum of his life since adolescence, condensed into this strange, strange world of Rán’tha, this Force-struck crystal bawling out a bawdy song, the Light—oh, the _Light_—and this moment—and the liquid heat gathered at his cock that’s so much more, that seems as if it’s the whole of him, as if his very essence—

Qui-Gon. He needs Qui-Gon. Stars and galaxies, he needs Qui-Gon.

Loves . . . yes, loves . . . and what that means, he doesn’t know . . . what this moment means, he doesn’t know . . . This is not exactly peace. Or tranquility. Knowledge of a sort, perhaps—

And the Force.

Yes, this is the Force.

And what are the Jedi but its vessels?

A Jedi’s call is to compassion—to the highest love—

To Light.

And Qui-Gon—oh—

The way he’d called his name—_his name_—

_<Here and now, my Padawan . . . don’t think . . . just feel . . . it will be alright . . . I'm here.>_

He hardly realizes he’s panting, all semblance of self-control utterly abandoned, hardly realizes that the whimpers have gathered, decibels slipped across the room, a scale continuously run—

He had promised himself he would be silent, as if silence is some final thread of honor.

But this is more than he can bear.

_<Master—please—I’m—oh—I _need_—>_

_<Then give a cry for all of life, my Padawan.>_

And Qui-Gon’s hand, at last—oh _Force_—wraps around his cock.


End file.
